


Helter Skelter

by brianmay



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 80s, ?? kinda, Alcohol, Angst, Cheating, Choking, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Dom/sub, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fame, Hair-pulling, Manhandling, Oral Sex, Partying, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Vulnerability, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brianmay/pseuds/brianmay
Summary: At the beginning of 1986, Halley's Comet tore against the atmosphere like a silver lining. Fervently ephemeral, bright and jaw-dropping, the comet could be compared to Brian May--who had climbed the barbed-wire rungs of fame to reach the very precipice. So when you met him--a fleeting star of your own--after the show at Wembley, he owns the ground you walk on, and he's going to show you how to have a good time.





	Helter Skelter

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize this story from tumblr, don't fret; this is @/gwilymz!! I just decided to post some of my fics here to hopefully get more readers! 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry if the text is a bit awkward; I'm still new to this site, and I have no idea how to use italics so I apologize for that!
> 
> xoxo, em

Halley’s comet is the only known comet which is able to be seen by the naked eye up to two times within one’s lifetime. Dating back to thousands of years ago, the comet has been seen glittering across the same sky which Socrates slept under, in an orange tiled home. It soared lightning quick through the thick winter fog when Shakespeare made history his own, and skipped through misty clouds, permeating through centuries of the Earth, watching the steady pattern of evolution transpire with her quick eye. Watching the world become aglow with light and grow taller and taller as if the speckled humans scattered along the patchy grasses were attempting to reach her, to send a transmission of sorts, a monumental hello. But she was too ephemeral for greetings; her afterglow fizzled through the sky long after she waved her goodbyes to the curious eyes boring into her fiery skin.

In February of 1986, Brian May sat upon a rooftop in Los Angeles, his hair strewn about in caramel coils, warm and luminous from the everlasting sunshine that projected upon the city when the rest of the world seemed to be blanketed in a withered grey, tired from the winter’s long toll. He wore a billowy white shirt, blown open from the same breeze that was pricking his skin with goosebumps which overlapped some fading freckles from the last bits of summer. His fingers adjusted a dial on the telescope he had hauled up the stairs of the abandoned building. Thick vines climbed the dilapidating bricks, rooting themselves in the sharp edges that prickled against curious fingers. Brian had a few scrapes from running his calloused palms over the walls himself, just to feel something. He felt a little guilty as he peered through the faulty eyepiece; a woman had seen him fumbling with the back door of the building and had assumed he was an arbitrary kid looking for a trespassing law to break. Brian had batted his eyelashes and soaked his smooth voice through with melted butter until her cheeks turned deep pink and she was unlocking the door for him, telling him to have himself a great night. He hated to use his star power to his advantage, but it was all the trick of the trade, he found.

In 1972, Brian couldn’t be caught dead with an ill-conceived notion in his mind. That Brian was all-around innocence, unfurled into a six-foot-two frame and embellished with a persistent blush and deep-set doe-eyes that had never seen anything but home cooked meals from his mother and A’s on his timely university assignments. But as Queen formed from the avant-garde minds of four twenty-somethings searching for something more than monotony and a two-dimensional perspective of the eclectic and wildly dynamic state of the world around them, things changed. They were bound to when fame was added in such large doses. The four of them started to become something, and in return, they got drugs and alcohol and girls–and really anything they could possibly think to ask for. And as they released albums that sold and tours that were so strenuous the four of them felt programmed, they started to feel deserving of the special treatment. Brian realized that was wrong, that it was a flawed ideology to think of himself as deserving of more than the average person–but then again, Brian hadn’t felt average for as long as he could remember. He was always taller, skinnier, shyer. He was always a dreamer, and even while studying in university he knew that academia wasn’t his vocation. He was always meant to be in the foreground of a world sheathed in opaque black shadows, obscuring most people.

Brian himself didn’t believe he was different than most people until the late 70s, after Bohemian Rhapsody had carved itself into musical history by revealing itself as the epitome of experimentation and mystification, therefore catapulting Queen into stardom that lured fans from all over the world–not only to their concerts but to their private lives as well. Mass-printed tabloids were soaked through with deep red ink, stamped with bold block letters, and told stories that were peppered with falsifications and sensationalist shock-value that made it seem like the everyday passerby was glaring at Brian for something he did–but didn’t really do. Since they were all tethered together by the fame they shared and sculpted from their bare, calloused hands, everything the other did was a taboo stain on their individual reputations. Whether it was Freddie’s sexual escapades that the paparazzi feigned as their own business, Roger’s sex tape, Deaky’s drunken stupor or Brian’s own cheating scandals–they all saw the imminent recoil from conventional people who couldn’t fathom how life unfurled on a silver platter, trimmed with diamonds and sharply cut rubies.

Freddie always shook his head and clasped a hand to his chest when he heard Brian becoming uneasy about the lifestyle they lived, genuinely astonished that he wouldn’t be ecstatic to reap the benefits of being an international icon.

“Brian, it’s only the game. We’re just playing it.” He sipped his flute of champagne, sat atop a studded throne of a seat in his Kensington home. He had just moved in recently with his boyfriend, Jim, and was still in the burdening process of unpacking, even many months later.

Boxes of old Queen memorabilia acted as makeshift seats for Deaky and Roger, who sipped bubbly champagne of their own, infused with the sweet tang of early summer strawberries. “You can’t act like you haven’t once taken advantage of the perks of being in Queen, Brian.” Roger tipped his glass–a chipped one meant for wine–to the nose of the tall guitarist, lifting an eyebrow as he ran his other hand through shaggy lemon-blond locks.

“We know you’ve had your affairs. We all have; it’s nothing we can judge you for.” Freddie scoffed, reminiscing back to the mid-seventies when they were so much younger and riddled with guilt when a party-goer was being coquettish with their mannerisms. But that behavior soon became expected, and they had all created an unspoken pact that their wives would never hear a word–not from them, at least.

“I know–it’s just the fact that I did take advantage of the fame. That’s what cost me my marriage.” Brian was sulking again, but the rest of the band wasn’t blaming him for it; he had just gotten a divorce with Chrissy after a very tumultuous marriage, manifesting through secret love affairs and drawn-out absences that made their marriage vows just meaningless words said without any intention of withstanding them.

“Not to be blunt–but I’m going to be blunt,” Roger said, swallowing a sip of champagne. The bubbles fizzled against his throat, which was a bit raw from his second cigarette of the hour. “I’m sorry you and Chrissy are divorced, but–” He scooted forward on the tattered cardboard box and ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “Think about it. You could have any woman around your finger. That’s what you wanted, right?”

Deaky belittled Roger’s argument with a pronounced eye-roll, not able to understand the allure of infidelity, although he had cheated a couple of times. It was his cheating that settled his hatred of it though; he had never felt more guilty–more nauseous–than after he fulfilled a pretty groupie’s dying wish. “Roger–come on,” He thumbed the corner of the box he was sitting on and looked around Freddie and Jim’s home, peering into the floor length mirror that was leaned against the wall, near the dining room table which was littered with bills and letters from fans. It was an awkward place for a mirror, but John fluffed his faux curls with dextrous digits, sighing. “Of course he doesn’t want that–that’s absurd.” Shaking his head, he pulled the waistband of his jeans, squinting as the afternoon sun reflected over the mirror and shone into Deaky’s fog-grey eyes, clarifying them.

While Brian agreed with John’s statement, he wanted a distraction from his personal life, and if that could be achieved by a dirty one night stand and a lot of whiskey–then he would take it. There was something rewarding and almost liberating about being able to pick up any woman with a captivating quip or even a suggestive lip-bite meddled with the quirk of an eyebrow. Brian had never been the most charming with girls in his past, so having the capability to get what he wanted, and who he wanted–was incredible to him, especially since he was nearing his forties. He had taken to picking up women as a test of his abilities, more than a way to relieve sexual tension from months on the open road. And seeing women lower their pretty eyes at him, cheeks becoming veiled in red when he showed them a pebble of attention–showed to Brian the depth of his power. If that was unhealthy or manipulative, so be it, Brian thought. He was only playing the game like Freddie always told him.

The four of them sat in heavy silence, their hands folded upon their laps, waiting for the others to carry on the pruned conversation. They were becoming tired of such adult ramblings, and they missed the lightheartedness of being in their twenties when their eyes were profound and optimistic and glittering with stars and innocent youth. They missed tacking fliers onto raw wooden posts and tuning their own instruments. They missed the gamble of it all; wondering if they would become famous–or anything at all–was half the fun. For years they had been deliberate with their music, backs hunched over the soundboards of a dingy recording studio in west London that was costing almost an entire month’s rent to use. They had formulated songs and instrumentals as if it were mathematics, but now it was innate, like the technological switch from manual multiplication to that of a pocket calculator. Now, it seemed that it was possible that people bought the record just because it was Queen, and not because they had heard a single on the radio and raced to buy it, as if they couldn’t fathom living a life without their beguiling song. After Live Aid, Queen was at their peak, and while the top of the world had a beautiful view, they knew they had a hell of a fall to the ground. None of them were quite sure when everything had become inverted. When they had decided to start a family and push music away for a bit instead of doing the complete opposite like they used to, much to their families’ persistent disapproval.

It was odd, feeling so liberated but simultaneously nailed down by his feet. He was used to the late-night calls and setting alarms for four, five in the morning to tell his children goodnight or read them bedtime stories, although the sound was distorted and tinny, and he was sure they could tell how exhausted their father was by the tense tone of his voice which was usually so languid and delicate to their ears. And as much as Brian would miss them on tour, he was itching for the dreamy looks in everyone’s eyes when his motif–his lovely chocolate curls–bounced about onstage as his fingers mesmerized thousands to watch his every deliberate move along his aged fretboard. Knowing that he was perfect in those eyes was what made him want to get away; to his Chrissy, he was an ex-husband, a cheater. His children were more familiar with their father’s voice when it was channeled through the coiled telephone line and not cooing in their reddened ears, silky locks tucked behind them by his gentle touch. He would always be an ocean away–or maybe just a river–but there would always be a barrier of some sort. Mental or physical, there would always be something holding him back.

Brian felt contrite that he was counting down the days to their tour, which would likely be their very last term on the throne. Usually, he would dread his fingers skipping forward over the boxes of the calendar, wanting nothing more than to sleep until ten and cook eggs for the kids while Chrissy could relax, for once. A plethora of their fights had been because of Brian’s career, but he also realized it was his career that was making everything in his life possible but also paradoxically impossible. That he would be able to pay university tuitions without trouble, but he would never have the deeply-rooted relationship with his children that they could only dream about, or live vicariously through their friends from school.

It was May 27th, and the tour started in exactly ten days. Ten days of goodbyes and hushed explanations as to why daddy had to leave again. Ten days of apologizing to Chrissy; she was so used to his farewells, that greetings from Brian seemed strange to her. But she’d miss him. And he’d miss her. They would hug each other firmly and amicably, the skin of their mouths sealed shut, in silent promise to keep their truths mute.

____

June 7, 1986: Stockholm, Sweden

The tour bus staggered over stone streets as the June sun just barely peeked over the riverbed horizon. Warm yellow rays rippled through the blackened water and reflected life over the white-paned windows of ochre buildings, detailed with curved arcs and sturdy pillars that held together the skeleton of the brightly animated city. Flocks of birds perched upon pear trees. Gardens were flushed ivories and rosy pinks, blooming in tandem with the birth of a new day. It was a Saturday, so the streets were relaxed; mothers rocked strollers back and forth while sipping sweet coffees. Brian couldn’t see a pastry, but driving past a quaint patisserie, he swore the nutty scent of an almond croissant wafted through his stuffy nose. He had just woken up, curled on the couch at the back of the bus. He was always the first one awake on days like these, even when there was no hurry, really. He still wasn’t used to the leisure of their last few tours; even in massive stadiums that held more people than his sleep-clouded mind could comprehend, they didn’t have a tight schedule. Rolling over to his other side, Brian’s hand clasped over his knee, his thumb pressing into the fleece-covered skin that was a tad sunkissed from days at the private beach.

“You’re far too old to be sleeping on that bloody sofa, Brian.” Freddie rolled his shoulders back and jutted his jaw forward, yawning. An eyebrow of his was combed downwards from sleeping on his stomach as he pulled Brian’s feet from the cushions so they fell upon the floor.

“Seems as if I have to, Fred.” Brian nudged his shoulder with his own, playfully. “That’s what happens when you all beat me to the bunks.”

“Well,” Freddie sighed, scratching at some dry skin near his mustache, which he needed to trim, he realized quickly. “I’m the oldest. So I’d say I deserve a bunk. You know how it is. What is this, our four-thousandth tour?”

Brian pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, scratching the tops of his forearms, warm from the summer morning basking through the paneled windows of the bus. “I’m the second oldest; that argument is awfully invalid.” He stood up and draped the knitted blanket he had slept with over the arm of the couch, padding over to the mini-fridge with a few tabloids stacked on top, dog-eared from restless nights when the four of them would flip to a random page to learn about the scandalous mischief they were apparently up to that week. “And I believe it’s the three-thousandth, actually.” Smiling at Freddie, he tossed a cold water bottle to him.

The bus rolled to a stop as the sun became strung up in the sky. They could see the stadium where their first concert would be; a large letter board sign advertised their show. It was bittersweet, knowing this would most likely be the last time the sparkling, adrenaline-infused nerves of a new tour would sting the pits of their stomachs. Freddie didn’t seem nervous at all, though.

“Roger, John, get up. We’re here.” Freddie slapped the drummer’s cheeks lightly, the softened skin pattering against his palm. “Better get used to this again.”

Roger bit the inside of his cheek and rubbed the corners of his cerulean eyes with the heel of his palm. “Arsehole. I coulda swore you said we’d get here at nine.”

“It’s eight-fifteen. I guess all the Swedes are getting plenty of rest for us. The roads are deserted.” Freddie continued his discourse as he knelt down to give Deaky a nudge. “C’mon chap,” He offered quietly, ruffling John’s perm between bony fingers.

“Is it that time already?” Deaky asked weakly. His t-shirt had ridden up during the journey from London to Stockholm and he fixed it as he pulled the covers down. “I swear we just got off the last tour.”

Brian peered in the cracked mirror near the bunks; it shattered in the upper corner after Roger drunkenly fell into it a few weeks before Live Aid and after too many chilled vodka shots. He adjusted a curl near his forehead, highlighted a lighter brown; golden undertones accentuated the smooth tan across his lifted cheeks. “I swear they’re right,” He began, scratching the crown of his head. “That life goes by much quicker as you get older. It’s really flown by.” He nodded, honey eyes flitting to his three best friends, those who lived the same unorthodox life as he did, good times and bad times alike.

“Remember Sheer Heart Attack?” Freddie asked, reminiscing over the chipped nail polish and thick black eyeliner, frizzy flat-ironed hair.

“How could Brian forget? Poor bloke was half-dead in a hospital bed for most of it.” Roger nudged Brian’s bony shoulder as the bus parked near the back of the stadium. The driver and a roadie bickered about a flattened tire, trying to decide where the puncture could have happened, probably after they got off the plane. They remembered feeling a jolt in their sleep, but they didn’t mention it.

“Those were good times, before the gangrene,” Brian pulled a hoodie over his head. A shiver ran up the expanse of his ridged spine as his curls bounced out of the soft hood.

“And the hepatitis.” John simpered, scratching the dry dimple of his elbow.

“That was utterly disgusting. The Gods tried to bring us down, but look where we are now!” Freddie clapped, always the chipper one, even before nine in the morning in a stuffy bus in southern Sweden.

“The tour bus? It’s heavenly here; you’re right, Fred.” Roger, scowled, picking up some discarded boxers from the carpet.

“Don’t even start, I’m ninety-nine percent sure those are yours.” Freddie rolled his eyes and mocked the grimace on the blond’s excessively grumpy face. “The bus has its luxuries,” He nodded, padding to the door. “It’s a symbol. Of where we’re headed to.”

The rest of them scampered behind their frontman, shoulders tense as the doors opened. A hollow breeze whispered good lucks in their ears. They twiddled with rings and self-assurance, ducking under a deep green awning, ushered inside by some maintenance workers who looked to have rather been anywhere else.

____

June 26, 1986: Berlin, West Germany

“Is soundcheck fucking deaf?” Peter–a roadie and close friend of the band’s mocked. He carded trembling fingers through his stick straight hair and blew a raspberry through dry lips, burnt from the penetrative sun. It was nearing record-high temperatures for Germany, but the thermostat just kept on rising, bleeding near the top. “For Christ’s sake, the bloody speakers are shot!” He kicked a yellow wire across the floor.

“Fuck, Pete. You’re stressing me out!” Freddie shooed his friend away, resting his head into open palms. His head was pounding; it felt as if his capillaries were popping in his forehead, one by one. He knew his remedy of choice was an awful idea an hour before a gig, but nonetheless, he was desperate. “Can you get me a ciggie? Be a dear, just this once, Pete.” He opened his palm, not anticipating that Peter would ever refuse him a smoke, and he didn’t.

Peter shoved his hand in his front pocket and took his Marlboros from within the linen lining. “Fred, the show starts in–” He turned his wrist and glanced at the watch tight around his forearm. “Fifty-three minutes.”

“And? Would you rather me scream at you and ruin my voice that way?” Freddie snapped, his tone venomous.

“Ever so charming,” Peter rolled his eyes, voice muffled by the cigarette hanging from his freckled lips. He slipped another between Freddie’s fingers and raised an untamed eyebrow, offering a light.

“It’s not gonna light itself, now is it?” Freddie tensed his hand, a demand for the scratched metal lighter that had been inert in his pocket, soaking the scalding sun. It was burning against his fingertips, but he was too annoyed to care.

Roger was like Pavlov’s dog, salivating at the roll of the sparkwheel. “Oi! Gimme one of those, I’ve been itching for a smoke since eleven this morning.” He nudged his Ray-Bans up the bridge of his nose, slick with perspiration. “Apparently cigarettes are a luxury item here or something; haven’t tracked down a single pack the whole bloody day.” He nodded in appreciation as Peter pushed a clean white cigarette between his lips, swishing the flame over the end until a small peppering of ashes sprinkled on the toe of his Adidas’s.

Deaky replaced the cigarettes tucked away in his shorts with his walkman, popping a tangled earbud from his ear. It bobbed between his teeth as Roger lit it, flipping the lighter in between his fingers, like the drumsticks twirling in his other hand. A yellow smolder glowed by fours as they all smoked, as if it were therapeutic. And it was; tour had worsened their habits exponentially, but Brian’s mouth was only occupied by the nibbling of his own lips, sixpence cold between the silky skin.

“How you aren’t addicted to nicotine like the rest of us is beyond me.” Freddie tapped some ashes upon the waxy cement of the floor, projecting his voice to overpower the staticky electrical wiring that was apparently far from fixed.

“I have my own vices.” He muttered, a goofy smile plumping golden tanned cheeks. “I’m sure I’ll be hammered by the end of the night.”

“Is that an invitation?” Roger pointed his shrinking cigarette to Brian’s face. “‘Cause drunk Brian is my favorite. And we haven’t gotten properly shit faced since–what–’83?”

“‘83?” Deaky’s head shook, heat-frizzed curls oscillating. They tickled Freddie’s cheek a bit and he giggled, pulling a strand. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration. I can recall at least four times within the past year of you being almost paralyzed from shitty vodka shots.”

“Bullshit.” Roger tutted, glaring through the lenses of his sunglasses. A sudden gust of wind extinguished his cigarette, and the smoke dissipated, feathering through the heavy air. There was a bit over forty-five minutes until the show and the sound was still faulty; a few German crew members argued about the amps.

“Do you not remember the bus mirror? Did that break itself?” Brian pursed his lips, sipping at a cold beer. Maybe he didn’t smoke, but he still needed something to chip away the dogged nerves.

Turning his chin up, Roger hummed. “I don’t believe there’s any photographic proof that it was me.”

Freddie pressed his heel into the butt of his cigarette, knitting his eyebrows together. He had just plucked a few stray hairs from them so the skin was raw and a tender pink. “There were plenty of witnesses.”

Peter reemerged from behind a cinderblock wall, a fresh cigarette tucked behind his ear as his fingers thrummed over the corner. “Okay, sorry to interrupt. They fixed it, finally.” He flashed a thumbs up and pushed a cooler that was parked by Brian’s guitar case, flipped open as another roadie pulled a loose string taut.

“Fantastic! Now does anybody know any German? Perhaps a cheeky greeting of sorts?” Freddie flipped through a yellowed German-English dictionary, squinting at the lettering that had bled over thinning pages just a smidge too much.

____

July 12, 1986: London, England

“Are you sure?” You rubbed your thumbs across a pair of glossy tickets, utterly confused as to what was happening. “You’re just giving these to me? Why?” 

“I can’t go. I have a bloody job interview on Monday.” Your friend exhaled deeply, looking distraught. Her eyebrows were straight across and downturned; her pouty lips lined in red followed the same droopy direction.

“You realize it’s a Saturday, right? Monday is the day after tomorrow.” You quipped, pressing the back of your hand to her forehead, just to make sure. “This is fucking Queen.”

“I know it’s fucking Queen, Y/N. That’s why this is the hardest thing I’ll ever do. But I’m also broke and I can’t be weaned off a hangover during this interview, which is in downtown London, might I add.” She was right about it being the hardest thing she’d ever do; she was still holding on quite tightly to the thick cardstock stubs.

“Who am I gonna go with?” You pondered aloud. Of course, it wouldn’t be difficult to find someone to go to a Queen concert with, but also you couldn’t just go with any acquaintance dwelling on the dusted pages of your phonebook.

“I’m not sure, but I do know that I can’t talk about this anymore or I’ll fuckin’ die from jealousy. God, I’m so pissed.”

“Is this job really that important? I mean really?” Finally prying the tickets from her hand, you felt the smoothly cut edges, reading the raised matte lettering upon the face. Queen, Magic Tour. Saturday, 12 July 1986. Reality was a fallacy at that moment, abstract, inorganic. You had spent countless hours of your adolescence laid across your bed as a Queen vinyl softly hummed against the dull needle of your old record player; your life had paralleled the discography, and those four men had composed the anthems of your generation. Their fame was unrivaled and was the unattainable, gilded pipe dream of all aspiring musicians.

Snapping you from your somewhat catatonic state, your friend adjusted the collar of her patterned button-up. Her bangs were curled under and she twirled the strands to fix them, although the humidity was working tirelessly against her. “I think I have a good shot at it. I barely had money to pay rent last month and I cannot live through that hell again.” She clasped a hand over your shoulder and squeezed, a rusted silver ring cold over your collarbone. “Tell me all about it. I think those are good seats–but don’t take my word for it.”

____

Brian sat on the edge of the stage, long legs dangling over the raised ledge. It seemed like a plateau, steep and terrifying as he looked at the flood of seats in front of him. His stomach turned and he felt like the captain of a giant vessel, looking upon the hurling, ruthless ocean in front of him, and he couldn’t believe he had gotten this far. That he was the captain when he used to be a boy blended in a mass of people, shadowed underneath a tsunami of salient peers. But now, he was silently overlooking 82,000 seats underneath the July sun that blistered over his neck. He thumbed a braided chain that fell over his collarbones until a twisted indentation dented his fingers.

“Can you believe Live Aid was almost a year ago?” Freddie squeezed Brian’s shoulders, sitting next to him on the edge.

“It all happened so fast; it feels like yesterday we got our first record deal. I remember we’d get so excited to play for one hundred people.” Brian nibbled on his lip, eyes squinting as the sun seemed to beam brighter and lift higher. “This always seemed so–impossible.”

Both of them could see a scattered line of people, legs bouncing in the distance. They looked like a horde of confetti, lively and colorful in the distance, a physical celebration of everything Queen had achieved.

____

You never wore watches, but time was seeming to trickle ever so slowly, much like the sweat pooling over your cupid’s bow. Wiping the excess perspiration with the back of an equally sweaty hand, you tapped your feet nervously against the fresh tar. Apparently, they had poured a new layer to accommodate the highly anticipated concert–which you were standing impatiently in line for. The flashing block letters of your watch read 1:56 and your stomach fluttered; the venue would be open in four minutes. You felt people’s shoulders digging into the tense blades of your own. Seagulls circled the vicinity, curiously cawing overhead, and you watched them until the thick metal gate sounded its opportune alarm.

“Alright, single file. Get your tickets ready; it makes this whole process a lot quicker.” A security worker yelled into a bullhorn, leading long, tendril-like lines of people into four separate, shorter lines.

You watched people scatter as they were let through the gate, and everyone was strung apart from one another, in search of their seats. There was a strange kinship beneath the cotton-lined clouds that day, and everybody was chatting as if they were all lifelong friends and not overheated strangers who happened to share the same common taste in music.

“Miss, do you have your ticket?” The same security man from before asked you, palm held out. He looked miserable in a white polo, but he gave you an excuse for a smile and plucked the stub from your hands. Scanning it, he gave you the remnants of the torn ticket and let you past him.

You had been sipping on water all day, not wanting dehydration to stall you from seeing the most iconic band in the world–and your body was begging for relief. Pressing your legs together slightly, you tiptoed to an abandoned corner of the stadium. A pretzel vendor gave you a tight-lipped smile and offered you some frozen lemonade with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Actually, I need the opposite of a drink. Do you know where the bathrooms are?” You asked desperately, tapping your manicured nails on the hot edge of the metal cart the worker was leaned against.

He chuckled, pointing a thumb behind him. “They’re just behind me. Turn right and you should see the signs.”

Thanking him, you followed a path of popcorn kernels, pulling the skirt of your sundress down a bit. Your hair was sticking to the back of your neck in clumps and the idea of finding an oasis–even in the form of a dirty sink in a rundown bathroom–was enough to put you on a hell-bent mission to get there.

____

“Shit,” Freddie muttered, holding his throat. “My throat is killing me. It feels like all my fuckin’ cats are scratching it from the inside out.”

It was nearing two-thirty, and the four of them, plus some roadies were sat in an uneven circle eating finger sandwiches, hunched over a scrabble board. Roger pressed his thumb against his bottom lip and cocked his head quizzically, trying to form a cohesive word from the array of vowels on his tray. “I swear, you guys always take all the consonants.” Roger digressed from Freddie’s complaint, rolling his eyes when he saw the only viable letter he had was an X. “Every fucking time.”

“It’s a random draw, Rog. Pick better letters next time.” Deaky popped a button of his shirt open and fanned himself with the Scrabble instructions.

“Brian, since you’re already losing this round terribly, could you get me a water? You look like you need one too.” Freddie gestured to Brian’s paling face and dried lips. It had been a while since he had anything to drink; he had been too focused on fixing an uncooperative amp that had been off kilter the previous night. Maybe he was over-meticulous, but it felt good–rewarding even– that he had yet to lose any of his musical passion; he had seen countless other bands wither away like parched sunflowers at the prospect of losing success in the wildly competitive field that was music.

“You’re lucky I’m parched too. Is that cooler still around the back?” Brian peered around the corner, seeing a younger woman scouring the otherwise deserted area–for what, he didn’t know. She was properly pretty, dawning a canary yellow sundress that accentuated her complexion, deepened from the scathing sun that seemed to be lashing against both her skin and his own. His skin was quite burnt, around his cheeks at least. He felt the flesh with rough thumbs and called out to the mystery girl.

“Sweetheart, are you lost?” He inquired, bending down to plunge his hands into the ice-doused water within the cooler. He pulled out two water bottles and then tucked another between his fingers. “D’ya want a cold water? It’s blistering out here.” He wore a toothy grin, although you weren’t looking his way.

The blood in the chambers of your quivering heart stalled, somehow frozen far below zero. Eyes following the slithering hose barricading you from the lovely voice behind you, your legs malfunctioned, buckling a bit. You definitely recognized that voice; it was impossible to forget a sound so sultry and warm with caramelized sugar crisping just around the edges. You turned around. Sure enough, it was the face that corresponded to the voice still reverberating through hot ears. Sweetheart. Brian May stood in front of you now, so you could see him in all his willowy glory. You felt imposed upon, unworthy, and impossibly intimidated in front of him, although the honeysuckle hazel of his eyes was nothing but gentle. His hair was layered in honey brown curls; a few of them were highlighted a dirty blond, faded around the roots where sweat was germinating. Eyebrows lifted, he smiled at you almost sheepishly, but his tall stature radiated nothing but assurance and conviction of the highest degree. White sleeves rolled over deeply tanned forearms, the rest of the shirt open and billowy over a striped tee that flaunted his chest nicely. A silver chain dangled over protruding collarbones. You were definitely staring, but then again, he was reciprocating the action even more.

“I–” You paused, collecting your wildly frazzle demeanor. “I’m just looking for a restroom. I was told there was one over here… but I have yet to see it.” You explained, kneeling down to tie your sneakers; they weren’t untied, but they had loosened noticeably in the past hour, and the throng of concert-goers hadn’t given you a chance to fix them; they were too electrified by the heavy bass boosting through the heady air.

“Technically,” Brian began, inching towards you. His strides were long and languorous; you could faintly hear the swishing of his white pants thrumming against your eardrums. “These bathrooms are for crew members, but I suppose we could make an exception.” His smile at that moment was buoyant, whitened canines nudging against the corners of his plump bottom lip.

His affectionate, overtly kind demeanor was enough to render you completely unable to form any words. Knowing you had record sleeves printed with his face smoldering over the thin cardboard was painting a fervent red blush across your cheeks. You felt embarrassed, like you needed to apologize for invading his privacy, as if you were. The dynamic between you two was completely obverse; he was an international rock star. Thousands–no, more like millions–keened for him. Longed for him. Just to see him in the flesh. He had a net worth of more money than you would see in your lifetime. And you were a girl whose shoelaces were now caked in mud and whatever liquid was seeping through the angry cracks of the cement beneath you.

“Do you want to use it? I won’t bite, sweetie.” Again, with the sweetie. Brian twirled the silver chain around his lithe neck, eyebrows cocked in patient anticipation of your delayed response. “I can show you where it is. It’s just around here.” He pointed to a rounded corner, to what was a very conspicuous Backstage: Personnel Only sign. Angry scarlet letters chipped around the edges, but the message was clear enough.

“Are you sure? It seems like–like I’m not really allowed there.” You mumbled, stepping towards him. Meeting his eyes was one of the hardest things you had ever done. They were puddles of honey and whiskey, sweet but with a tinge of bitterness buried beneath the rippling surface. It was addicting, looking into them, even though you wanted to be liberated from his quite penetrative gaze.

He strode forward. Now he was right next to you, thrusting a water bottle in your hand; he was right, you probably needed it. His free hand, now devoid of the water, was ghosting over your lower back, and you wondered how this happened, and simultaneously what else would happen. “Nonsense. You can be my guest for the time being.” He quickly opened the door and you had never felt so scrutinized, like a minimal cell smashed on a petri dish, being observed by some of the most famous people in the world. “What’s your name, love?” Brian whispered in your ear, and you swore you felt his lips graze against your lobe–but you were probably just imagining that. Wishful thinking.

“Y/N,” You answered, nodding as if to affirm that it was, in fact, yours.

“Well, hello, Y/N. I’m Brian.” He held a hand out, long, skilled fingers wiggling, enticing you to shake it.

Giggling, you reached out to clasp your hands together. His was much larger and very warm. You felt his tendons quivering under the soft skin, but his fingertips were scratchy and textured against your knuckles. “I know.”

“Well, now that we know each other, I can tell you that you’re very cute.” He opened the bathroom door for you and left you alone with your thoughts, a whirlwind of debris kickstarted by Brian May himself.

Leaving the bathroom after a couple of minutes, you found Brian chugging some water as he peered over Roger’s shoulder, which was tilted towards a Scrabble board. You felt like an intruder looking in; personnel yelled into walkie-talkies and rolled heavy equipment over the hard ground, twisting the trail of yellow wires along the way.

“Thank you, Brian. For letting me use the bathroom here. I should probably get to my seat now.” The four of them waved at you, smiles reflective like the film of sweat on their cheeks. And that was that you guessed.

“No problem. It was very nice to meet you, love.” Shaking his curls from his face, he led you out the door.

____

Four o’clock was just an insignificant blip in the continuum–but it couldn’t come fast enough. Chants echoed through every corridor in Wembley; girls and boys alike chatted about what Queen meant to them. You listened to childhood memories that paralleled your own; many of the people around you recalled Queen defining their youth, belting the words they were too naïve to come up with themselves.

You averted your gaze from the gaggle of strangers nearby to focus instead on the stage in front of you. Almost right in front of you. Your friend wasn’t kidding when she said they were good seats; she probably wouldn’t have given them up if she knew you had to crane your neck to make out the crew members adjusting the crooked lights. The jumbo screens above the stage were especially hard to see–but you could just make out the countdown reaching thirteen minutes.

As it approached ten minutes, the chanting grew louder, piercing your eardrums but in the most pleasurable way possible. The exhilaration was as palpable as the muggy air around you, as vibrant as the colorful balloons grasped in clammy hands. The crowd was a rainbow personified, and they longed for the taut rope of anticipation to snap; it was already hanging from a bare thread.

____

“Five minutes!” A roadie thrust a pair of drumsticks in Roger’s hands. The white sweatband he was wearing stretched as he grabbed them twirling them nervously. The five minutes before a show were always the worse, when the chaos manifested into butterflies of the most invasive kind. The four of them bounced on the balls of their feet, instruments cradled safely in their exposed arms.

It felt even hotter now, and it definitely was; the sun was directly upon the city of London and plenty of people who couldn’t afford the concert or who were simply plagued with a bout of curiosity were camped outside, wishing they were within the stadium, which was bursting at the seams with the most diverse crowd of people you had ever seen.

The stage shook beneath them. The riptide of people crashed against the shore of the stage as the seconds diminished, floating away one by one until there were only twenty seconds left. Then fifteen. Ten.

Nine. Brian held the neck of his Red Special tightly, knuckles white-hot.

Eight. The stage crew held up enthusiastic thumbs up and held the linen curtain back, their feet tapping.

Seven. Brian held his guitar up to his ear, checking if it was tuned.

Six. He dug his hands on his hips and tilted his head back, blowing a shallow breath through puckered lips.

Seven. The crowd composed a cacophonous symphony of claps.

Six. The intensity surmounted itself, building up, up, up–until it seemed it couldn’t gain any momentum.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Brian stepped through the transparent curtain, sleeves bunched at the elbows as he began to strum quickly, much like the rate of his racing heart. Brian felt high–not as if he were on drugs, but like he was at the highest altitude possible, looking over a mass of so many nameless faces. And they looked up at him, mesmerized by composite guitar riffs that were once nestled into the corners of Brian’s preoccupied mind. But now, thousands and thousands of people were listening in on those little ideas of his, and they loved them. He felt like a God, almost; no matter how wrong or narcissistic that sounded, it crossed his mind quite a bit. He was hypnotic, controlling a hub of people with the flick of his finger, a scrunch of his eyebrows, a lip bite.

You were one of the hypnotized, watching his commandeering glare, neck achey from looking up at the reigns of power on the stage in front of you. You could almost see the glint in his eyes, a kind twinkle that revealed a crack in the mask that was his lively stage persona. Tendons in his neck quivered and pulsed. You could see the twinkle of his necklace glitter over his collarbones. Peachy lips parted as he ran across the stage. Sweat trickled over the ridges of his sternum like a washboard, pooling beneath his striped shirt, and you felt sweat of your own spill over your brow. His forearm tensed, muscles contracting deftly as the sea of people swayed and pushed you closer to the man permeating your every thought. It was nice to daydream about him at that moment, to ponder that maybe he was thinking about you too, no matter how unrealistic and utterly impossible that sounded. That was the beautiful thing about a conjured-up fantasy. The point was that it was doubtful and intangible, a far-out comet ripping and sparking against the very edge of the atmosphere but unable to cut fully through it. It couldn’t.

Brian was your Halley’s comet–a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, forever fleeting and impossible to catch for more than a few fugitive seconds. He was bright and lively and representative of awe. Of intangibility. Of a luminous, unique beauty that left mouths agape and pupils dilated, black holes swallowing striped irises whole. Looking up to that stage he was the embodiment of that comet, and the whole world was focused on this moment–this chance–they got to see him be.

It felt all too soon when you saw the four of them bow, chests full of muggy air and hair floppy and soaked with the day’s work. A few girls near you sobbed as they stepped off the stage, pressing firm kisses to their fingertips and flinging them into the overwhelmed crowd. Of course, it was loud; your ears had never rung more–but it felt like white noise all around you. Young women wiped smeared mascara from their teary eyes with shaky forearms; their boyfriends pulled them off their sore shoulders and started to shuffle out, looking almost dejected.

____

The Kensington Roof Gardens was a beauty of a building on Kensington High Street rooted deeply in the culture of central London. And just like the name suggested, lush green vines and waxy ferns reached perpetually watered stems to the sky. It was an elite party venue, and Queen only upped that ante when the four of them decided that one of their notorious after-parties would surely be held beneath a roof sheathed in green.

The sleek limousines sneaked around busy corners and tiptoed through alleyways to ensure the secrecy of their location, but truth be told–all of them were a bit too tipsy to care about confidentiality. Freddie popped the top off the first champagne bottle of the night, back nuzzled into the plush corner of the red velvet seat. A wide, toothy grin lingered on alcohol-infused lips as he took the first sip of the night, warm carbonation cascading over his exposed tongue, head tilted back.

“Open up, boys!” Freddie gripped the narrow neck of the bottle tightly, forgetting about the champagne flutes held to him in outstretched hands. Instead, he poured his nectar of celebration over his bandmates’ tongues, watching their eyes screw shut as they attempted to catch the golden drink in their mouths. Plenty of it spilled over the once clean onyx carpet that was now salted with mounds of cigarette ashes. The four of them–along with a few respective partners-were parked in front of the stone building, adorned with columns of windows and acid rain stains that aged the architecture of it significantly.

You wondered yourself what was going on in this nook of the city; rows of limousines and black Cadillacs bordered the sidewalk where you were standing. The beat-up yellow taxi you had told to drop you off at the corner of Kensington was a stark polarity from the other vehicles, all fashioned with windows that were more akin to chalkboards; they were almost completely opaque. And then, Brian’s cloud of curls fogged your vision and it felt almost fateful. You didn’t belong there, though, and the serrated glares you were receiving only reminded you of that.

Brian’s head perked up, lips taut in a goofy smile. “Y/N? What brings you over here in Kensington?” He was wearing a white button-up now. It was wrinkled, rolled up to his elbows and half-open. Tight jeans hugged his long legs as he strode towards you with effortless, boundless confidence.

“Oh–I was just dropped off here. I didn’t mean to intrude or–” You rambled, scratching your forearm nervously. Brian was smitten by your demeanor. Your knees were scuffed in a veil of dirt, sneakers loose around bunched-up socks. The strap of your sundress had fallen from your shoulder and your chest was hot beneath your fingers as you played with the necklace laid upon your sternum, a rosy blush seething over your smooth skin.

“You’re not intruding. It’s a party..if you want to have some fun.” He touched your shoulder, his thumb rubbing over the knob of your collarbone. You shivered, peering up into those eyes, tainted with something that was almost intangible. “Come up and have a drink with me, love.” Lingering fingers found a home on your lower back, nestled into the crevice of your spine. You felt as if you had been tranquilized; your knees were feeble and you wondered if you would sink into the glass shards shattered on the sidewalk like a mosaic of sorts.

“Okay,” You answered weakly, mirroring Brian’s steps tentatively. A steep flight of stairs led you to a pair of fogged glass doors, the dainty hands of two half-naked women wrapped around brass doorknobs. Cigarette smoke billowed through the cracks in the door and ebbed throughout the stale air inside. Freddie was the first inside, a fully drunk champagne bottle tight in his grasp.

Men in unbuttoned shirts and velvet bow ties lit cigarettes and held trays lined with daunting trails of cocaine. There was no paraphernalia, everyone there was of such an elite class, their own money served a dual purpose. 

Brian must have seen your unease; he tilted your chin towards him and shook his head, lip tucked between barely crooked teeth. “Don’t worry about that, sweetheart.” A woman in a high-waisted black thong walked by in massive heels, hand splayed, holding a tray carefully balanced with a dozen flutes of champagne. All of them bubbled over, but Brian grabbed two, holding them between his first two fingers. “Do you like champagne, sweetheart?” He asked, nodding his head to a leather upholstered booth in the corner, near an arched window. Vines crept over brick walls outside; roses climbed with them, tangling into bouquets.

“I love it.” You dipped your tongue into the thin froth of the top before tilting your head back to let the gilded liquid slide down your throat. Brian watched you carefully, guiding you to sit down next to him, although the booth was completely vacant. He thumbed a tear in the leather, his arm around your shoulder.

“Good,” He took a sip, looking at you through black lashes, adams apple bobbing as he swallowed. “There’s tons of it, princess.”

Princess. That made your heart flutter, your eyes paralleling the same action. You looked down at your lap, noticing the skirt of your dress was falling far above your knees now. Brian’s other hand rubbed against the hem of it; you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t looked down. “You played really well tonight.” You blurted. You couldn’t think of anything else to say; it was as if Brian had pulled every coherent sentence from your head and had unraveled their threading until it couldn’t possibly be put together again.

“Thank you.” He smirked at you almost imperceptibly, but you saw it well enough. You felt like a puppy, begging for attention. You just wanted to pull at his collar and climb on his lap, but luckily your dignity was stable enough and you balanced your id’s burning desires by scooting closer to him, your fingers finding the collar of his shirt, much like he had with your dress. “You seem stressed. Why don’t you let loose and have some fun, pretty girl?” He asked worriedly, adjusting his position so his legs were spread a bit further. You tried not to focus on how tight his jeans were, and it was hard to anyway; his fingers were now rubbing over your shoulders. “No need to be worked up. We’re here to have a good time.” The calluses of his digits added a deep pleasure to his movements; it felt like his touch was swirling into your bloodstream, pumping through your quickened heart.

“I’m just nervous–” You rolled the ring on his pinky as his nails scratched your knee. Biting your lip, you used your dwindling strength to suppress a whimper scratching at your throat.

“Nervous about what? About me?” He played with some baby hairs at the nape of your neck. HIs lips were now even closer to your own; his fingers swirled up your thigh. “Is this okay?” His eyes were caramelized honey but ablaze by something feral, primal.

“Yes,” You pulled his wrist so his hand was back on your leg.

“Naughty girl.” Holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, he brushed his lips against yours, noses pressed against each other. “Be patient.” A bead of sweat pooled in his sternum as a few of his curls tickled against you.

“Patient for what?” You replied. Your arms were shaking with anticipation and you were suddenly overtly jittery for him to make a move.

“The party just started, sweet girl.” Kissing your forehead, he squeezed your upper thigh, running his thumb over the apex, dangerously close to your white cotton panties. He waved down a nude waitress, whose glittery black eyes fluttered at the mere sight of Brian. He could barely be seen, but the moonlight obscured by some bonsai branches gave her enough of a glimpse. Her back arched, hips swaying almost robotically, programmed to respond to his attention. You wondered if you were acting the same way, abandoning respectability to claw at this Adonis of a man next to you. His touch had branded you and you were fine with being his, even for just a night. Grabbing some amber colored shots, he leaned into you, voice somehow booming over the bass of the club music wafting through cigarette smoke air.

“How about,” He suggested, raking his nails down your bare thigh, hands beneath your dress. “I drink these, and then you can have a taste?” He said this against your neck, tongue dragging over your collarbone as he caressed you expertly. Seduction was a masterful art, and he was a connoisseur.

You nodded, careening into the feathery kiss he pressed to your jugular. “What is it?”

“You’ll taste it soon enough. Curious little thing.” 

The music shot through your ears and buzzed into your blood; you felt fizzy like the champagne settling in your stomach, watching Brian’s jaw twitch as he tilted his head back, eyes screwed shut as he downed the whiskey shots until his lips were soaked with it.

Pushing the empty shot glasses away on the mahogany table, he pulled your chin forward, meshing his lips completely with yours, ravishing your mouth with his alcohol-soaked tongue until you felt the tingle of the drink pervading your heightened senses. He smelled like sweat and aftershave and lots of money. His hand rested on the back of your head; your own ran down his exposed chest, rubbing along the ridges of his sternum as he brought you even closer. His kisses liquified in your mouth. His tongue was rough, stroking along your mouth until you were whimpering, yanking him by his collar for more. Standing up halfway, you rested on your knees, hands curling in his coiled tresses; his hands fell over your lower back, pinkies falling at the top of your ass. His hands soon found the dips of your hips, thumbs digging into the plush skin to push you onto his lap.

“You have no idea–” He growled into your neck before nipping the skin on the column of your throat, thigh rocking back and forth against your soaking underwear. “How much I thought about you all day.”

You mewled, feeling hyper-aware of your surrounding yet somehow like you were nowhere near civilization; you were in someplace far away, heaven maybe. “Me?” Your legs shook until you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, and Brian was quick you rest you completely in his lap, at his mercy.

Harsh music filtered through your drowsiness and flushed your ears until they were clear, devoid of sound. All you could hear was the rustling of the fabric of your dress scratching against the raw calluses of Brian’s fingers. Wet lips pressed over your lips, and then trailing down your jaw and over the quivering tendons of your neck.

“Yes, you. In this little sundress. Looking so innocent.” He said, punctuating each sentence with a suck on your throat, hands shamelessly palming your ass so he could revel in your whimpers for him.

Tilting your head back, you pushed his head closer. His nose nudged against your pulse point. “Do you do this–with all your girls?”

He chortled. “No.” He pulled your hair back, smoothing out the front at the crown of your head. “But sometimes there’s a woman who I can’t fuckin’ resist.” He rested his forehead against yours and suckled on your bottom lip, eyes still hooded and focused solely on you.

His fingers pulled at the hem of your underwear just as you felt the seat across from you dip.

Slurring, Freddie shook his head. Champagne sloshed over the lip of a golden goblet. “Look at this goblet, Brian. Absolutely ridiculous. There’s a shit ton of them over there if you would get your cock out of this girl.” He pointed to a swirled etching on the side and took a drink, lips flush against the side. “I swear it tastes better to drink from these!”

Brian didn’t appreciate the interruption, although it was expected. “Fred, maybe you should get a refill; you’re running on empty here.” He rattled the excessively large cup, but his other hand was laid firmly on your waist.

“I guess I’ll leave you to it. Jesus.” Freddie rolled his eyes, using Brian’s shoulder as leverage to lift himself from the airy cushion. He felt airy himself, floating amongst his partygoers like an unorthodox prophet, spreading fabricated wisdom. “Just make sure you’re not married first, this time.”

You and Brian looked around; the party had intensified tenfold while you had been intoxicating each other. Women bent over tables so a huddle of men in the corner could snort fine cocaine from the supple skin. There were showers of beer and champagne as drunk friends rocketed green glass bottles from filthy barstools. Freddie was on the bar now, goblet fastened on his head as he danced with little coordination; half of the guests followed along to his movements as if it were a requirement to do so.

You were so enraptured in the ruckus around you, you almost didn’t notice Brian’s tongue tracing up your neck before he kissed your chin gingerly. “Have you ever been fucked?”

“I’m not a virgin if that’s what–” You said, yelping as Brian’s fingers dipped under your dress and traced over your lower stomach.

“No. That’s not what I was asking. Have you been properly fucked before?” He was stern, eyebrows raised as he pulled your hair just enough to test the waters.

“No.” You muttered weakly. This was moving fast–but not nearly fast enough.

“Can I be your first?” He asked. His voice was low, the very edges of his lips grazing against your chin. Some frizzy curls stroked the length of your neck.

“What are you gonna do to me?” You traced a finger over the chain of his necklace and his head lolled to the side lazily.

“What if…” He popped a button of your dress and mirrored your own actions, playing with your necklace, rolling the charm with his thumb. “I do whatever I want to you and you stop me if it’s too much?” He cooed, popping the ‘P’. “Would you like that?” Nimble fingers pulled your chin forward forcefully.

“Mhmm.” You affirmed, palms flat against his exceptionally warm chest.

“Be a good girl for me and use your words.” His grasp on your jaw only tightened; you saw the veins in his forearms pulse, his thumb stroking your bottom lip.

“Yes,” You affirmed. He was undeniably powerful, an expert at getting exactly what he wanted–and not because he was over-insistent. No, he just had a way about him that made saying no the last thing you ever wanted to do. He was dangerous, venomous even–but you wanted him.

“Perfect.” He smoothed your hair down affectionately and pushed his sleeves further up his tense arms. “But first I’m going to mingle with some friends over there, and you’re gonna look pretty on my arm.”

He was torturous, his arm snaked around your waist, the expensive watch he was wearing bulky against your back as his hand squeezed your ass. You hung onto his shoulder obediently, as if it would get you what you wanted quicker–but you knew it wouldn’t. Brian was in full control of the situation, and the abiding sensation of his hands rubbing down your back reminded you of his intentions as he bid farewells to Roger and a few other friends.

“Rog, ever the people pleaser, I see,” Brian commented, nonchalantly. His fingers twiddled with the seam of your dress over your hips and your eyes fluttered a bit; the warmth of his fingers was an all-consuming fire, hugging you with its orange licks.

Roger smirked in your direction, noting your obvious arousal for the man holding you tightly. He took a drag of his cigarette, legs spread on the couch. He was wearing sunglasses inside, although the only source of light in the room was some tiny yellow lights dotted above the bartender. “I’m no people pleaser,” Roger responded, leaning forward to dust the raw wooden table in front of him with glowing cigarette ashes. “I’m just pleasing myself, and I guess that happens to please other people.” His words were a bit slurred, and Brian left him to finish what he started.

He offered his hello-goodbyes to quite a few partygoers, large hands held tight against a different, more intimate patch of skin with each parting of his lips. You knew he didn’t know these people too well; their furrowed brows and fleeting eyes told you it was odd for Brian to volunteer to say his sacred hellos. He just wanted to have his reign over you in a time of his life when everything seemed to be withering away all on its own. Of course, his body wanted you. His mind did, too. But his subconscious longed for you in a different way–a way that was comforting, reassuring. To know that he still had a smidge of jurisdiction over his life, that he was still attractive, worthy of lusting eyes and touching beautiful women.

It was a few minutes later when Brian’s teeth latched onto your earlobe in the elevator, pulling your hand forward to touch his cock through impossibly tight jeans.

“Do you feel how hard I am for you?”

You stroked his length through the material as the elevator came to a smooth halt. It really was an upscale hotel; the design was clean and modern, with sleek wallpaper that was almost velvety against your shoulder blades. Nodding, you scratched your nails against his cock and popped the button of his jeans as he led you to the hotel room.

“Such a bad girl. To think I thought you were a little sweetheart.” He pushed you against the door as he unlocked it, thigh strong between your legs, wrist twisting to allow you both into the room—and subsequently to your sexual desires.

“I guess you just pull it out of me.” You replied, untucking his shirt from the snug waistband of his enticing jeans while he locked the door cautiously.

Turning around, he wrapped a hand around your throat. The lights in the room were dim; only a black lamp set aglow by a digital alarm clock intermingled with the full moon gave you a glimpse of Brian’s hunger for you—but the oppressively desirous air pervading your lungs was enough to remind you.

“Get on the bed.”

You nodded, sinking into the plush mattress. The pillows were cold against your neck, cushiony and freshly washed. The sheets were finely threaded silk caressing your skin carefully– but you wanted something rougher. Brian must have read your thoughts because then he was on the bed with you, knees on either side of your legs as he twisted your hair in his grasp and pulled back, lips attaching to your throat. He bit and sucked and kissed until the familiar hue of your flesh was superseded by mauve love bites that bloomed like rose petals over your skin.

Brian’s fingers ran over your clothed clit, feeling you throb under his commanding touch. You were soaked for him; your casual underwear had to be ruined by the steady flow of arousal seeping through the airy cotton.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re so wet.” His tone was patronizing, thumb petting your trembling chin. The bed creaked under his weight and he pushed the straps of your dress down, pressing hard kisses over your hot skin. Wrenching the hem of the fabric with his fingers he undressed you completely, so you were underneath him wearing only a thin cotton bra and panties of the same material. “Look at you. Pretty, pretty girl. Didn’t know you were gonna get fucked today, did you?”

“No—“ You muttered, legs spreading as his hand cupped your pussy. “Not at all.”

“Precious thing. Never been fucked properly in your life.” He got up on his knees and unbuttoned his shirt to the top of his navel, where he abandoned his torso to rid himself of the increasingly uncomfortable jeans which were oppressing his cock. Now only in his billowy shirt and tight briefs, Brian laid you down on the bed and kissed you with absolute starvation; his lips left open-mouthed kisses over your jaw, tongue swiping through your lips to feel your tongue quivering in his own mouth. His hands ran over the expanse of your back and unhooked your bra, only halting his wet kisses to pull it from your body. You arched your back, leading your nipple to his mouth until his breath fanned over the hardened bud. “Is this what you want?” His syrupy brown eyes locked with yours and it was like only he held the key to really see you. He tongued your nipple, moaning into your supple skin as he sucked your breast into his mouth and palmed the other one, before changing positions to give his love to the other side. Kissing down the slopes and valleys of your body, he trailed his whiskey-flavored tongue down your stomach, reaching the waistband of your panties. But he stopped there, eyes focused on your discontent at his lack of attentiveness to your needs.

“Brian–” You whimpered, making his cock rush with blood. You were writhing with his every touch and he relished in having complete control over you. He longed for control.

“I want you to suck my cock.” He grumbled against your navel and you nodded eagerly. “You want that, don’t you? You little slut.” He thumbed your clit through your panties before slapping your pussy, his other hand gripping your thigh apart from the other one.

Getting up, he stood by the bed, imposing, his legs eternally long. He didn’t have to tell you to get on your knees in front of him–his quirked eyebrows and bitten lips were commands in and of themselves. You touched his cock tentatively, feeling the throbbing veins pulse beneath your fingertips as Brian tilted your head back with his pulling of your hair. When you hooked your fingers through the waistband of his underwear, he groaned, petting your hair.

“Good girl.” He praised, watching you with hooded eyes as your own widened ones stared up at him for approval. All you wanted was to make him feel good. For him to never forget this moment. You wanted him to stroke his cock and think of you, fucking his hand and wishing it was your cunt tight around his member. You had never felt this type of lust before; purely concentrated, smoldering desire burned your throat–but that was soon replaced by Brian’s impressively sized cock sliding into your mouth. “Fuuuck.” His moans were an antidote, flushing your system with equal parts endorphins and tingling adrenaline as your spit trailed down his cock.

You hummed around him, eyes fluttering shut while you stroked what couldn’t fit into your mouth, which was at least an inch or two. Pulling off of him briefly, you wiped your mouth and kissed his tip softly. Brian’s hips bucked, his cock sliding against your lips and over your cheek. Tears bordered your face as your eyes reopened, looking desperately into Brian’s dilated ones. His lips parted, and he continued to rock his dick against your lips, loving the filthiness of it–your eyes watering, mouth covered in spit and his pre-cum while the velvety head of his cock stroked your mouth.

“Open those pretty eyes for me.” He tilted your chin back as you did what you were told. “Now open your mouth.” You did that too, giving him your best doe eyes although they were exceptionally watery.

Holding his hard cock in his hand, he slapped your tongue with it, hand still tangled in your hair. You closed your lips around him and hollowed your cheeks, batting your eyelashes as you took him as far as you could possibly go.

“Yeah, baby. Do you feel my cock throbbing down your throat?” He questioned rhetorically.

You only pulled off of him a bit in response, stroking his head with your tongue and swallowing some pre-cum that dribbled from his slit. Bobbing your head, you fondled his balls and tightened your lips around the upper portion of his shaft, the part of his cock that you quickly realized was hypersensitive.

He thrust into your mouth languidly, moaning, head tilted back as you gagged around him. “You’re gonna make me cum–stop,” He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he pulled you up by your hair, pushing you onto the bed, lips magnetized to yours while he yanked your panties down your legs. He tasted champagne and himself in your kisses, and he was so hungry for you that his teeth clashed with yours slightly. Pulling away, a string of saliva was broken by Brian’s fingers finding their way to your lips. You parted them, taking his pointer and middle digit into your mouth and swirling your tongue around them before he pressed against it, making your eyes open to look at him. His nose nudged against your cheek, his breath fanning over your face. You wanted to drown in him; you wanted to breathe him in and hold your breath forever. He was driving you crazy, and he knew it. He just couldn’t say much about it, because you were doing the same to him.

Pulling his digits from between bruised lips, he nudged them against your clit, rubbing you in tight circles, forehead flush against you. You could feel your walls quivering around nothing as you whimpered into his mouth, arms around his neck.

“God, you’re so desperate to be fucked. I can feel your little clit throbbing.” His words seeped into the corner of your mouth and you parted your lips in a wanton moan, allowing them inside. You wanted to cherish them, let them manifest inside your stomach and morph into butterflies.

You only whimpered in response while Brian slipped a finger into your cunt easily. The wet noises were filthy, and Brian–along with yourself–looked down to watch his long fingers delving into your hole.

“I’m going to taste you now; is that alright?” He asked, smirking at the sound of your sweet whimper tingling down his spine.

“Please—“ You begged, legs spreading wider in response to Brian’s death grip on them.

And then he was kissing down your jaw, your neck, your breasts. His tongue trailed down your ribs and over your navel until your back was arched completely off the bed and your heart was beating so loudly you wondered if Brian could hear it. If he was beating at the same alarmingly erratic rate.

He kissed your clit almost lovingly, smirking against your cunt. You felt his nose press against your pelvis—which he held down with a splayed hand. His other hand gripped your thigh open as his tongue fucked into you, curling upwards to flick your aching clit. He ran his tongue from the bottom of your slit to the top, before he bit your thigh and became almost animalistic with his movements. Hands squeezed your thighs so hard they began to go numb. His tongue flexed, harshly licking your swollen bud until chants of his name were the only thing he could hear—plus the obscene licking and sucking of your begging pussy.

“That feel good?” He asked, nibbling on your inner thigh.

You couldn’t speak; only a weak groan escaped the confines of your mouth. Your thighs shook as Brian sucked your clit into his mouth and hummed into you, tongue working expertly at the same time.

“Brian—I’m gonna cum,” You pulled on his hair and he growled, sliding his hands beneath your ass to hold you up for him. He slapped your ass hard.

“Good girl. Cum in my mouth. I feel your cunt tightening around my tongue, sweetheart.”

It was that name—sweetheart—that made you cum, hips thrashing upwards and eyes rolling back while Brian just continued to assault your clit with his teasingly accurate tongue. You were panting and whining so loudly that Brian reached a hand up to squeeze your throat, a silent command, reminding you of his dominance.

And then he was flipping you on your stomach, hands kneading your ass after delivering harsh slaps. His thumb ran through your folds until your legs trembled and your hands fisted the sheets below you. You felt his cock twitching against your ass and you couldn’t help but push back against him.

“Fuck me, Brian. Please.” You pleaded, feeling sweat dribble from your forehead onto the silky sheets.

“Condom or no?” His hand tangled in some sweaty locks of yours, the other one tensed by your head.

You were too lost in the way his cock slid against your folds to answer, but Brian made you. He grabbed your jaw and reiterated.

“I said, condom—“ He slapped your ass, kneading the reddened skin in his palm. “—or no?”

“No—no. Please, I want it raw.”

“Of course you do, dirty girl.”

He slid into you deftly, groaning and throwing his head back, fingers pushing his curls from his face, lips parted wide. Inch by inch he thrust into you, watching his cock disappear in your cunt. You were so tight that Brian almost whimpered, but he reached down to rub your clit so you would instead.

“Does it hurt, sweet girl?” He asked, stroking your hair. He was bent forward so you could feel his hot chest against your back, and you realized he was still wearing his button up. It was soaked in sweat and almost fully unbuttoned and you felt the thin fabric softly stroke your back.

“A—a little.” You admitted, looking back at him with something akin to worry.

“Just focus on the pleasure, sweetheart. My fingers rubbing against that little clit, that feels good doesn’t it?”

“So good,” You clenched at his words and he whimpered—no whined—against your shoulder blades.

“Feel my cock deep inside you? I’m so fucking—so fucking hard for you.”

He was experimenting, testing a hypothesis to see what made you whimper and push back into him as he slowly fucked you. And quickly, he realized it was his voice that made your hands tangle in the sheets and your eyes roll far back into your skull.

“Yeah? You like me talking dirty to you, don’t you? Such a little slut for me.” His hips snapped forward so he was completely sheathed inside of you, and he hit a sensitive spot that made your legs give out and your hips fall. Brian lifted your hips back up, fingers still rubbing your clit in figure eights.

“More—Brian, more. Please fuck me.”

That was all he wanted to hear, was your meek little voice telling him to do what he wanted most—and he delivered, pounding into your pussy with erratic thrusts, his pelvic bone rutting against your ass.

He pushed your head into the mattress, fucking you so hard your jaw fell slack and squeaks of approval were all that your throat could produce. Calloused fingers flicked your clit; his other hand found itself raking down your back, but as soon as your legs began to tremble again—he stopped completely, feeling your cunt throb around him, ready to cum.

“You were gonna cum, weren’t you?” Brian chuckled, his thumb pressing against your asshole. “God, baby you’re just so needy.”

The trickling cirrus of your orgasm fled away, replaced with a sting— a pleasure of a different kind—buzzing on your ass. Brian slapped it repeatedly, thumb now against your entrance where his cock laid idle.

“Please,” You mewled, fucking yourself against him.

“You’re being such a bad, bad girl.” He pulled out, opting to rub his cock between your folds, the veins of his shaft stroking your clit perfectly. “I don’t think you deserve my cock.”

Reaching your arm back, you tried to grab Brian’s, but he linked yours together and grasped your wrists in one hand, fingers rough over the delicate flesh.

“Please. I deserve it. I’ll be a good girl for you,” Whines turned into pleasured gasps when he pushed his tip into you, hips still.

“Say it again. Promise me you’ll be a good girl.” His hand pressed against your cheek and you couldn’t see it, but a lonely tear streamed down a cheek peppered with barely-there freckles. His thumb dug into your wrist more; he could feel your pulse accelerating.

“I’ll be a good girl for you—please—give it to me.”

Grunts and pants echoed over the walls, seeping into the burgundy wallpaper and tangling into the fibers. You and he were apart of this room now; sweat pooled on the sheets, soaked into the ridiculously high thread count. Kisses transferred onto pillowcases and sound reverberated against the walls like a tennis match of sorts.

Twisting your sweaty hair in his hand, he pulled you up, flush against his chest. His shirt was thoroughly soaked. The buttons were a much-needed cold against the small of your back as he thrust into you deeply once again, his cock hitting your g-spot directly with every snap of his pelvis.

“Choke me—“ You uttered. One of his hands was still holding your wrists together, and the other worked over your clit.

He didn’t need to be asked twice. Releasing your raw wrists from his hold, he squeezed your throat, turning your head towards him. Your pussy clenched around him as his lips grazed over yours, eyes hooded and barely open but focused on yours nonetheless.

You thought the sex would be dirty, rough and impersonal– because of course, you and Brian weren’t close. He didn’t know your last name, or where you were from. Everything you knew about him had been written in Rolling Stone or told to you by the television middle man. But you felt his at that moment, as he pushed deep inside you and held your lips to his, fingers tight around your throat. But his thumb stroked your cheek, lips parted and eyebrows furrowed as you moaned into each other as if love had squeezed her way between you, somehow.

“Fuck—sweetheart I’m so close.” Brian flipped you over onto your back and quickly fucked into you again, elbows resting beside your face, forehead pressed to yours.

Your legs wrapped around Brian’s waist and pushed him deeper. “I’m gonna cum Brian—you’re fucking me so good.”

His jaw tensed. Breaths became shallow, lacking substance. They weren’t life sustaining; their only purpose was to sustain lust and pleasure.

His hips angled lower and he drove his cock into you with a new purpose as he held your hands above your head, interlocking your fingers with his.

Feeling his cock twitch, you looked up at him through tear-soaked lashes. His cheeks were feathered into a deep pink; his necklace dangled over your face, grazing your bottom lip with every needy thrust.

“Cum inside me-“ You whimpered.

Brian let go of your hands and grabbed your cheeks, pressing a kiss laced with passion and desire—but something so different from lust, from the sheer domination he was showing earlier.

Resting his forehead against yours, your eyelashes fluttered against each other’s. “Tell me you love me.”

It was jarring, hearing that from him.

But he wanted control. To feel like he had an ounce of it was a desire that almost trumped the sexual ones he was fulfilling with you writhing beneath him. His whole life had felt determined by the flip of a coin, and ironically enough, his career had been spent with one in his perpetual grasp. He had a marriage in ruins, kids who barely seemed to know him, friends who liked him simply because he was who he was.

“I—I love you,” You choked, pushing his hair back.

He came immediately, and his dominant side revealed itself again in harsh groans and tightened grasps. Hot spurts of cum painted your fluttering walls white, which was the only color you could seem to see as Brian rubbed your clit messily, his thrusts erratic and tremoring as he rested on his knees for a better angle.

“Fuck—you feel so good around my cock. Such a good girl.” A raw moan ripped from his throat as he felt his cum coat you from the inside.

And then you came too, bringing Brian’s hand to your throat again as a vice of your own. You sucked his thumb into your mouth and clenched around his sensitive cock, cumming with his thumb pressed against your tongue as you squeaked out a pathetic mewl of his name.

Brian pulled out of you wordlessly, hissing at his sensitivity as you both watched his cum seep out of you, resting on your elbows to get a better look. He got up to clean you off, shrugging his button up off to replace it with a soft t-shirt instead.

“Want me to call a taxi?” You asked, still reeling from what happened.

“No, no. You’re mine for tonight. Why don’t you stay with me?” He seemed vulnerable.

As soon as you said you would, Brian pulled a shirt of his over your head and held you in his arms until his breaths were as even as the patterns you drew over his back. Drops of hazel pooled back into his eyes as his pupils retracted and his top eyelashes combed through his bottom ones, eyes closing. His arms slumped back and his mouth fell open. Jagged breaths blew over the tender skin of your neck, but he didn’t know that. He had let go for the first time in a long time, and that was good. Control was good too, but in the midst of his dream, he realized that sometimes, he needed to let it be.


End file.
